Individual entries on Richard Kostelanetz’s work in several fields appear in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth-Century Writers, Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature, Contemporary Poets, Contemporary Novelists, Postmodern Fiction, Webster’s Dictionary of American Writers, The HarperCollins Reader’s Encyclopedia of American Literature, Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, Directory of American Scholars, Who’s Who in America, Who’s Who in the World, Who’s Who in American Art, NNDB.com, Wikipedia.com, and Britannica.com, among other distinguished directories. Otherwise, he survives in New York, where he was born, unemployed and thus overworked.

Individual entries on Richard Kostelanetz’s work in several fields appear in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth-Century Writers, Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature, Contemporary Poets, Contemporary Novelists, Postmodern Fiction, Webster’s Dictionary of American Writers, The HarperCollins Reader’s Encyclopedia of American Literature, Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, Directory of American Scholars, Who’s Who in America, Who’s Who in the World, Who’s Who in American Art, NNDB.com, Wikipedia.com, and Britannica.com, among other distinguished directories. Otherwise, he survives in New York, where he was born, unemployed and thus overworked.

Individual entries on Richard Kostelanetz’s work in several fields appear in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth-Century Writers, Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature, Contemporary Poets, Contemporary Novelists, Postmodern Fiction, Webster’s Dictionary of American Writers, The HarperCollins Reader’s Encyclopedia of American Literature, Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, Directory of American Scholars, Who’s Who in America, Who’s Who in the World, Who’s Who in American Art, NNDB.com, Wikipedia.com, and Britannica.com, among other distinguished directories. Otherwise, he survives in New York, where he was born, unemployed and thus overworked.

]]>http://flashfiction.net/2019/01/24/one-word-stories-richard-kostelanetz-7-12/feed/0Breviary by David Mohanhttp://flashfiction.net/2019/01/22/breviary-david-mohan/
http://flashfiction.net/2019/01/22/breviary-david-mohan/#respondTue, 22 Jan 2019 00:12:02 +0000http://flashfiction.net/?p=1898We met in a chat room, then followed up with a date in the city. I wore a black dress to ward off expectations. He wore a grey undertaker’s suit. We had a nice seafood dinner in a waterfront restaurant. He was an accountant, but I didn’t hold that against him. The liquor drowned out […]

]]>We met in a chat room, then followed up with a date in the city. I wore a black dress to ward off expectations. He wore a grey undertaker’s suit. We had a nice seafood dinner in a waterfront restaurant. He was an accountant, but I didn’t hold that against him. The liquor drowned out all sense and I went home with him. That might have been the end of the story but instead of sex he asked me to pray with him. I refused. It seemed too intimate and too weird. Besides I hadn’t prayed for years, and prayer was a private thing. I got furious with him, as though he’d tried to take advantage or something. I felt deceived. He phoned a taxi. As his doorway silhouette slid away, I sighed and thought, a mercy.

I closed down that chat room pretty sharp. Unfortunately, we’d emailed once to arrange our date and so he sent me an email to apologise. It was one of those epic, too-polite apologies near-strangers specialise in. It was a miniature gospel to the unconverted. He said at the very end, just as I suspected he would, that he’d like a second chance with me. Some chance, I thought, shutting down to take my shower and head to work. But I didn’t press delete. It had reached the stage in my life where even the interest of a complete loser was better than nothing at all. I had my cats, my apartment, my friends, but there was a definite gap in my life. Man-sized. That evening I wrote back saying that’s fine, whatever. That kind of don’t-care vibe. We started off again, “taking it easy” this time, meeting for coffee in very public Main Street joints, chatting a little and leaving it at that. He had a familiar story—lonely widower, too-busy career guy, no social life. The religion stuff was still freaky to me—I hate that shit in anyone. He was born again, yadda, yadda. My mind closed when he talked about it. I’d press a mental switch re-starting the conversation. As it was in the beginning.

We went out for a time. Kevin. That was his name. I didn’t give the prayer stuff the time of day and I could see he was torn between what we had and what he thought he should be saying to me as a matter of duty. These born-again folks have this endless compulsion to convert. He ached with it all the time we spent together. I could see that desire roiling in his eyes like demon vortexes, but I was always extremely firm about where I stood. “No politics or religion, Kevin, or it’ll spoil everything. This is a multi-denominational relationship.” We moved in. I let him get on with his thing and I got on with my old life—then sometimes we met in the middle. One day I came home and found him praying with another woman. They were kneeling opposite each other like angels guarding a doorway. I wasn’t exactly surprised. It had always been in him to do this kind of thing with other people. They both stood up, looking flustered. The woman reddened and did up the buttons of her cardigan. I acted out, I must admit. I felt betrayed. I was a fire storm, an Old Testament desert prophet. I declaimed. I threw them out into the apartment corridor. Kevin kept knocking on the door like a Bible salesman. I could hear the woman crying. For a while I sat against the door wondering if I wanted to let everything that lay on the other side back into my life. Not to mention whether a shared prayer was an intimacy that might be classed as a betrayal. I wasn’t sure, and so I went into my bedroom to lie down. The clouds were passing across my window same as usual, making their own insubstantial countries out of vapour. I lay there for a long time and watched them. Amen.

Individual entries on Richard Kostelanetz’s work in several fields appear in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth-Century Writers, Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature, Contemporary Poets, Contemporary Novelists, Postmodern Fiction, Webster’s Dictionary of American Writers, The HarperCollins Reader’s Encyclopedia of American Literature, Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, Directory of American Scholars, Who’s Who in America, Who’s Who in the World, Who’s Who in American Art, NNDB.com, Wikipedia.com, and Britannica.com, among other distinguished directories. Otherwise, he survives in New York, where he was born, unemployed and thus overworked.

]]>http://flashfiction.net/2019/01/17/one-word-stories-richard-kostelanetz-6-12/feed/0Understanding by Katherine DeGiliohttp://flashfiction.net/2019/01/15/understanding-katherine-degilio/
http://flashfiction.net/2019/01/15/understanding-katherine-degilio/#commentsTue, 15 Jan 2019 00:06:56 +0000http://flashfiction.net/?p=1895She used to pull the covers over her head when shadows morphed into monsters. One day she walked into her room, tears clinging to her cheeks, and the monster growled. She growled louder. Now she dangles her arm out the side of her bed, and they hold hands. The End.

Individual entries on Richard Kostelanetz’s work in several fields appear in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth-Century Writers, Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature, Contemporary Poets, Contemporary Novelists, Postmodern Fiction, Webster’s Dictionary of American Writers, The HarperCollins Reader’s Encyclopedia of American Literature, Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, Directory of American Scholars, Who’s Who in America, Who’s Who in the World, Who’s Who in American Art, NNDB.com, Wikipedia.com, and Britannica.com, among other distinguished directories. Otherwise, he survives in New York, where he was born, unemployed and thus overworked.

]]>http://flashfiction.net/2019/01/10/one-word-stories-richard-kostelanetz-5-12/feed/0Down at Al’s Pool Hall by Robert McBreartyhttp://flashfiction.net/2019/01/08/als-pool-hall-robert-mcbrearty/
http://flashfiction.net/2019/01/08/als-pool-hall-robert-mcbrearty/#commentsTue, 08 Jan 2019 00:55:56 +0000http://flashfiction.net/?p=1892I keep waiting for good news. But no one calls. No one knocks on the door. Maybe tomorrow. We’re all sleepy here in our town. We slog around in the summer heat, waiting for something to happen. At night, I open the window of my furnished room and lie in the heat and hear the […]

]]>I keep waiting for good news. But no one calls. No one knocks on the door. Maybe tomorrow.

We’re all sleepy here in our town. We slog around in the summer heat, waiting for something to happen. At night, I open the window of my furnished room and lie in the heat and hear the town buzzing like a fat, lazy bee.

My friends here lack gumption, lack get up and go. Some went to college, some didn’t, but we’re all stuck in dead-end jobs, or no jobs at all. We hang out at Al’s Pool Hall and all we talk about are girls, but the girls are sick and tired of waiting for us to come out of Al’s Pool Hall and do something with our lives besides drink and play pool.

It was different when Al was still here. He gave us pep talks, told us to go out in the world, to expand our horizons, to find our dream, to do more with our lives than our parents had. If someone was down on his luck, Al was always there to listen. If we were out walking, he’d drive by in his big red pick-up and honk and wave. Just seeing him cheered us up, gave us a sense of purpose. There’s Al, we’d say, let’s go see Al.

On one of his adventures, to a game refuge this time, he sent back pictures and cheerful and inspiring articles for the local newspaper. One night, a lion broke into his tent and clamped Al’s head in its teeth. It dragged him out of the tent and into the brush. But we know that through it all, Al would have kept his upbeat attitude. This happens all the time, he would have told himself. They maul you a little and move on.

We still hang out at the pool hall, but we’re lost without Al. The new manager chews us out if we hang out without spending much or if we get too loud. One night, Al’s sister comes in and walks over to the pool table where we’re playing. They used to live together, brother and sister. She starts crying, so I put my arms around her and hold her and she cries into my chest and tells me I was always one of Al’s favorites.

A couple of days later, there’s an envelope in my mailbox. I open it and there’s a key inside and a message on white unlined paper that says: Al’s pick-up. Take it and go. Find your dream. You’ll need to recharge the battery.

I’m already packing. I won’t leave much behind. Tomorrow I’ll drive Al’s pick-up down to the pool hall. I’ll honk for the guys to come out. No more waiting around. I’m leaving town. Anyone who wants can come with me.

“Down at Al’s Pool Hall” originally appeared in New Flash Fiction Review, autumn 2018.

Individual entries on Richard Kostelanetz’s work in several fields appear in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth-Century Writers, Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature, Contemporary Poets, Contemporary Novelists, Postmodern Fiction, Webster’s Dictionary of American Writers, The HarperCollins Reader’s Encyclopedia of American Literature, Baker’s Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, Directory of American Scholars, Who’s Who in America, Who’s Who in the World, Who’s Who in American Art, NNDB.com, Wikipedia.com, and Britannica.com, among other distinguished directories. Otherwise, he survives in New York, where he was born, unemployed and thus overworked.